Alone Are Ice and Night and Anything
by Mylos
Summary: An ambush on the edge of a frozen lake takes things from bad to worse.
1. Porthos

I wrote this what feels like an eternity ago and, having read over it recently, decided it was decent enough to post. It is nine short chapters long. Time permitting, I'll post each as quickly as I'm able to dust it off. The epilog requires the most editing, but even it shouldn't take too much to get into readable order.

Though not necessarily a fill, this fic was inspired by a meme prompt for cold boys, on the verge of hypothermia, ultimately having to huddle for warmth in a cabin somewhere, and by its subsequent fill "Cold Like Wonder" which made me want to try my hand at this trope also.

* * *

**Porthos**

* * *

The brutal shove to his sternum is swift and unexpected. The ambush of pain encapsulates his senses and the world narrows. Porthos has just enough time to register the visible puff of his own breath fleeing into the frozen air and that's that—he's tumbling backwards off solid ground, smacking down and skidding across the lake of ice behind him like a slipped musket ball over polished wood.

When he lifts his head at the end of his journey, he's nearly ten feet from the lake-line. His opponent is standing in the wind at the shore's edge, watching him with a vindictive grin, sword dangling from a loose grip.

Then comes the cracking.

Tensing, Porthos spreads his hands, shifting warily up onto an elbow as white lines begin spreading out from beneath his body, patterning across the ice like spider webs.

There's just enough time for one guarded breath and he plunges through, ice and water rushing into his ears and mouth, folding over him like a blanket.

For three seconds, he panics, thrashing wildly as all understanding of up and down loses meaning and the cold punches at the burn in his lungs. He thrashes until the weight of his accouterments dragging him downward manages to restore his sense of gravity. Even then, the sensation is slow to settle and he finds the murky bottom of the lake under his boot-heel by absolute accident.

The mud sucks at his foot, mawing over the leather covering. In desperation, he kicks off, legs burning with everything he can give them in his clumsy break for the surface.

Sloshing up through the broken ice, he gasps into the air with more violence than he'd left it. The harsh wind that strikes back at him like an additional slap in the face.

"_Porthos!_" he hears distantly, but can't tell if the screaming voice belongs to Aramis or d'Artagnan.

"_Porthos!_" The second shout is punctuated by the sound of clanging swords and—just as he blinks enough water out of his eyes to scrabble his arms in the direction of solid ice he doesn't think he can climb back onto—a musket shot.

"Aramis!" he gasps, trying to see farther than his furiously blinking eyes will permit. Bracing his gloved palms on the icy surface before him, he prays for stability and sloshes upward, but catches his belt on the edge as he tries to rise. The surface breaks and he plunges downward again. As the lake swallows him, he grits his frustration into the water flooding through his nose and teeth and holds his breath, this time letting himself sink.

Finding the muddy lake bed, he digs his heels in, bending his knees, then pushes upward to start everything all over again.

He changes tactics as soon as his mouth breathes air again. Instead of trusting the ice as a surface he can climb back onto, he battles it, beating down on it with his arms and elbows so that it splinters into the water, clearing his way closer to the shoreline. Within a few feet his boots are able to touch bottom while his head stays above surface.

A few feet after that, the ice is thick and collected enough for him to kneel up on and drag himself shivering to solid ground.

Swiping at his eyes and breathing heavily, when he can focus, he finds himself kneeling next to the man who'd shoved him—now sprawled dead and supine on the earth. A musket wound above his enemy's ear is slugging out a line of quickly freezing blood. Steam rises off it as it congeals against the bluish-white skin.

Porthos stares, and blinks, and stares again.

He stares and keeps breathing, but it isn't enough. His chest is locking up, his vision hazing out, like the icy water in his ears is trickling into his brain. The wind is cutting straight through his doublet, slapping his own wet clothes into the surface of his skin and he can't think. He can't speak. He feels like if he tries, his teeth will break.

Closing his eyes against his own will, he clicks his jaw shut as the world tilts.

Collapsing forward, he rolls to his back in an unwanted parody of the corpse next to him, and feels himself gasping at the sky with a desperation he's never wanted anyone to see from him.

"_Porthos!_" he hears again. "_Porthos!_"—a too-distant voice, accompanied by the dream-like clanging of embattled swords. "_Porthos!_"

It's like a shout from a memory. From a place or time he should know. A person he should remember.

Despite the strain of effort, his lungs seem only to sputter in response.

* * *

tbc

* * *

Title is taken from an obscure poem by Nansen, which to my recollection is itself untitled, but if I discover otherwise, I'll come back and correct this.


	2. d'Artagnan

And we're off for more.

* * *

**d'Artagnan**

* * *

Finally—_finally_—yanking the bloody tip of his sword from the man accosting him, d'Artagnan trips himself into a full-out run, skidding to a halt at his friend's side and then hovering inanely for half a second before dropping to his knees. _God, Porthos_. He grips his hands to the wet leather—leather so cold his knuckles immediately ache with it. "Porthos," he shakes. "Porthos!"

"_D'Ar-t-an_," Porthos blurrily whispers, eyes closed and mouth barely open—panting—like he can't get enough air.

"I'm here. I'm here. We've… we've got you." It feels stupid to ask him if he's all right, so d'Artagnan doesn't. Instead, he takes in the situation and tries to form a plan, skittering his gaze across the bitter terrain.

Aramis is locked in combat with the last two bandits who'd remained behind to assail them, and the only cover available to any is the sparse tree line battling the wind beyond the roadway from the lakeshore. There is no shelter to get to, not nearby, but they have to move—Porthos needs to move.

Scanning farther just as the wind shifts, d'Artagnan frustratedly swipes hair out of his eyes, compressing his numb lips. The darker copses of trees seem too far to get to and would be of little aid in this weather, and he feels warily uncertain about whether additional ambushers from the party might await them in the outlands or not, but it seems like too much of a possibility to ignore.

"Porthos," he determines, patting at the side of his face, knowing only that to stay as they are is folly. "We need to get you up." Getting no response, he tugs futilely at the stiffening coat. "Porthos, we have to go and we have to get you moving." He changes his grip, pulling up on the shivering frame, but it's all solid muscle, twitching and jerking from the icy plunge. "Porthos."

_Come on come on come on! _thinks d'Artagnan_._ He tries again, but gets nowhere, and feels the panic begin to build. Porthos's lips are a dark bluish color, and his eyes, when they flicker, squint blackly with the cold. "Aramis! Aramis! I can't move him!" he cries, uncertain what turn the remainder of the small battle has taken. The wind has stolen the sound of clanging swords.

"It's all right. I've got him," says Aramis, suddenly just there, puffing clouds into the cold that hover eerily before being whisked away by a draught. Bodily shifting d'Artagnan over, he expertly grips Porthos's wrist to quell the jerking, then pulls it up and across his own shoulders, leveraging himself under Porthos's arm and then up to his feet in a smooth motion that suggests he's done this a time or two before. "I've got him," he repeats, though his voice is strained.

D'Artagnan rises with him, and then stands fidgeting, scanning their quiet surroundings and their dead opponents while his breath hisses visibly into the air. The ambushers who already escaped made off with everything. They have no blankets. No horses. No fire-starting materials. Nothing. "What can I do?" he asks, looking at Porthos's fluttering eyes, then at Aramis's dark and serious ones. He wishes he did not sound quite so lost.

Aramis gives him an assessing look. "Give me your cloak," he says, visibly swallowing, then pinning d'Aragnan with a gaze that is as apologetic as it is determined. "And then run. Run ahead to the cabin—as fast as you possibly can. Athos has no idea we were overtaken. He'll be waiting for us, and we need him to know Porthos's condition. We need him to know it now."

The cabin. The cabin where they're meant to meet Athos is some two leagues away, not far under normal circumstances, but—but if they had other options, Aramis would have said so, so d'Artagnan nods, watching his breath curl worriedly before his face before a gust surges and steals it away.

In the next heartbeat, he strips his cloak off, handing it over to Aramis, and with one last look, simply takes off, picking up speed as he leaps over branches and boulders and holes in the ground. All the while picturing Aramis trudging the distance behind him with Porthos trembling and convulsing against Aramis's body. Convulsing with a cold that d'Artagnan understands much too well to want to consider Porthos experiencing it for long.

_Run_, he thinks, letting his mind white-out to the purpose at hand. _Run_.

* * *

tbc

* * *

Not that I'm all about historical accuracy, but my understanding of French measurement in this time period is that they were still based loosely off the Roman system, but with some of their own adjustments until 1674 when things changed a bit. Thus a league in this context would be 3.248 km, or 2.018 miles. So when d'Artagnan indicates that he's going to have to run nearly two leagues, he's got about a four-mile dash ahead of him.


	3. Porthos II

A thread of progress.

* * *

**Porthos**

* * *

There are shapes in the gloom. They tower and waver, howling in whispers of dark white.

Porthos is small in comparison.

He wonders abstractedly at the way he trudges yet can't think to move his feet. Disturbed.

There is something about the distended, spindly arms swaying so far above his head that he should know. _Something._

_There is something..._

"That's it. That's it. You're doing fine. Fine and frozen, of course, but not for long. Not for long. That's it."

This is a warmer tone. A voice worn, like rough bark. It picks and prods.

It is a precarious thing, and stiff, but Porthos turns his head to see.

"Charon?"

A long swallow moves under the throat before him. He stares, over-focused on the strained flex of skin.

"No." The warm tone wavers. "No. I killed him." The last is quiet and distant, converse to the contracting pressure Porthos feels beneath his shoulder blades.

_There is something…_

A pain he must have forgotten awakes in body and he tracks his gaze higher, finding eyes like black fire, taut with urgency. "Aramis?"

"Yes."

It is a brief moment of clarity before Porthos is beset by a violent and painful shiver, and like that, the rest tumbles back. Stumbling from ice and water. Bare trees looming. Frost dusting into powder beneath their slogging gait before a variant and violent wind whips it into nothing. He growls on reflex.

Aramis looks at him then, yet keeps them moving at a grumbling pace. The strain is evident in his determined jaw as he turns his face into the distance, flexing back a blank worry.

Porthos sees it and tries to find his feet, remembering with troubled chatter of teeth the parts of Aramis that seem to shutdown whenever there's a task to be won. "Aramis." The word barely emerges.

"It's all right. D'Artagnan runs like a falcon flies. Athos will be for us soon. It's fine. It'll be fine." Aramis's response is a calm force, the warmth of which Porthos sometimes hates. He always hears the worry in it where others don't.

Bending to respond, he feels his chest flutter dangerously and decides to shut up. Concentrating his mind on keeping to the present and working his limbs because Aramis is right. _They'll be for us soon._

Leaning on Aramis as they proceed, he finds himself switching back and forth between outright shivering and a calm, numb cold. His joints ache and he can't seem to control his movements—legs and feet defying his commands.

He's wearing Aramis's dry gloves on his fingers, Aramis's dry shirt, and has d'Artagnan's dry cloak buttoned around him—as well as one more and a scarf confiscated from one of the downed ambushers. Nevertheless, his skin remains frozen and tight. His toes feel like someone has stuck them with a million needles and, more often than not, his thoughts refuse him, revealing gaps as he drags images forth from a dark cognizance.

He doesn't know what happened to Aramis's cloak—thinks it might have galloped off on a horse somewhere early in the battle. The only other found amongst their enemies was a thin piece Aramis rolled into a bundle to wear across his back—Porthos's leathers and everything else of value or use to them wrapped inside.

"That's it. Keep going," mumbles Aramis, pushing them both forward with single-minded determination.

Through a contradictory shiver, Porthos imagines that he has stopped breathing as heavily as he was before, and that Aramis has taken it over—poorly hidden and strained grunts slip between his teeth as he moves them. Faster than he should. Porthos is struggling with the clenched pull his rippling arm is causing on Aramis's neck but his muscles refuse the cooperation required to loosen and for the moment he can hold these observances, his brain panics. Stumbling, he coughs through another shiver and Aramis lists, readjusting his hold.

Dizziness makes the world wobble for a moment, but somehow, Porthos gets his juddering jaw calmed enough to speak, discovering they're already back to pace, the urgency in Aramis's demeanor less and less disguised.

"Slow-er. Slow down, Ar-mis. You can't… can't… help… help me… if… if y… if you… kill yourself." Porthos jerks into another shiver and staggers.

Aramis's grips tighten. He rocks sideways to even their balance and keeps them onward, but for the first time since the lakeshore, when he speaks, the rough warmth of his voice vacillates. "Maybe we should stop," he supplies uncertainly. "I can use the pistol powder to start a fire, and perhaps we can use the cloaks to–"

"No," chatters Porthos. The wind would never allow it. And though Aramis is trying to control it, he's shivering now too, in fits and bursts he's been hiding below the cover of Porthos's own spasms. Porthos's mind is pressing through a fog, holding onto thoughts as well as one might hold a spooked bird, but he recognizes the state they're in. If they stop now, they won't start again. "_No_," he repeats, surprising himself with how distinct the word sounds. "It won't… be -nough. Just… slow down… for… for your own... sake. 'm… not… dying. Athos and d'Artagnan… Athos and d'Artagnan…"

"Will come for us soon," Aramis finishes, adjusting his grip and moving them onward.

The movement helps in its own way. Porthos fights to keep his muscles to it. He still stumbles, missing three steps out of every five, but Aramis seems encouraged. "Just keep shivering," he whispers, the tone not lost on Porthos's scattered thoughts.

"I know the cold," he declares absently, and for a moment Aramis is Charon again. They are in the descending dark of the city with no fingers to their gloves, no hats to their heads, and Flea not come upon them yet.

"I know you do," Aramis responds honestly, voice reflective and pained enough to pull Porthos to the present. The light through the bare trees is fading fast. Troublingly, Aramis dips his head to the side, pressing his forehead to the skin of Porthos's temple. "I know you do," he repeats.

"You too," Porthos mumbles, then stumbles over a stone his leg can't feel before Aramis rights them.

"Me too," Aramis agrees. After that, Aramis returns his gaze to the vague direction of the cabin and shuts up, but he doesn't break pace. Not even for a second.

* * *

tbc


	4. Aramis

Aramis goes forward and does not know if it's been minutes or hours.

* * *

**Aramis**

* * *

"Ar-mis," Porthos whispers. The rough, wispy tone curls over the shell of Aramis's frozen ear and hangs there. It is like a mountain turning into dust. He wants to respond—to ignore the thin quality and shove forth a litany of light reassurance—but his own voice has become harder to manage. The motion of it is not something he needs Porthos to hear.

"A-mis," Porthos whispers again, stumbling heavily and frighteningly into Aramis's hip before somehow finding the will to recover tension in his knees. "Ar-am-s."

Aramis compensates, rocking and tightening his spine to take more of Porthos's weight, going forward without losing a step.

"A-r-is."

"Yes?" Aramis gets out, cognizant of the strain his voice doesn't manage to cover.

"Posse…" Porthos says, then breaks off, jerking sharply. "Ban-d-its… ab-out?"

"No," Aramis assures. His voice shakes. "They have what they wanted. No reason for them to come back."

"'cept to… kill… us," Porthos mumbles, sounding too far away. The slackening timbre blows an inky darkness into Aramis's mind. There is something about it… something about it that makes Aramis feel like a sword is pointing at his chest.

"Which would be more trouble than it's worth… in this weather," he answers._ Not when they can allow the cold to kill us for them_. He turns his head, banishing the thought. "They won't be back."

_Step right. Step left. Step right, _he thinks.

Only that.

Porthos is not finished. "Y-'re… you're… worry… worr-ied. C'n… tell."

"No," Aramis denies, scuffing his boot heel over a rock. His teeth clench and he can't feel them.

"Flea," stutters Porthos, voice lost in a different sort of distance. "Flea should… should be… back… now. Shouldn't…?"

"She stole a ream of wool from the baker of all people. She's bringing it to you."

_Step right. Step left._

"I... remember." Porthos's head jerks around, confused. "Do... do you?"

"You told me about it once."

More and more dead branches are scattered on the ground. The bare trees look like parchment, perhaps having been thinned by some former blight. Still, the low phase of twilight lengthens their height. They loom heavily.

_Step left. Step right_.

"Cap… Captain?" Porthos murmurs next.

Aramis stumbles, only just. The last trace of heat in the whole landscape finds the space behind his eyeballs and sparks a temporary sting.

_Step left. Step right, _he thinks_._ _Step left. Step right._

"No," Porthos corrects himself. "Not… not the… captain."

_Right, _Aramis thinks. _Left._

"Ar-mis."

_Step right. Step left. Step right. _Aramis moves. And moves. A murky, trembling urgency rolling through his body. _Step left. Step right—d'Artagnan runs like a falcon flies—it won't be long now. Step left._

Porthos breathes and staggers beside him.

_Step left._

The world continues to narrow. Twigs fracture beneath Aramis's boots while the wind abruptly changes direction, twisting his hair into complicated tangles.

His mind teeters precariously above of chasm of brutal thoughts.

While navigating the next branch, Porthos's head dips to Aramis's shoulder in a moment of boneless apathy, then jerks to attention with a shudder. Aramis flinches and reels with him, darkening his mind. _Step right. Step left._

_Step. Right._

_Step. _

Every three paces, Porthos's arm flexes uncontrollably around his neck, straining tendons and dragging on muscles. Aramis would take the action as reassurance, if not for his awareness that each of Porthos's spasms flutters more weakly than the last.

_Shiver, damn you, shiver,_ he wants to say. Then wants to laugh—in his head, the voice issuing the order sounds like Athos. A complicated conscience, if ever there was one.

_Step. Right. _

_Step. _

_Step—_

The clopping of horse hooves descending upon them sends Aramis's heart into a panic. The sparse stretch of trees gives them few options for hiding and he can't balance Porthos and get to his sword at the same time. If it should be the bandits returning, they have little left to lose but their lives. If he drops Porthos, he doesn't think he'll get him up again.

"Aramis!" comes the distinguished shout. "Porthos!"

"Athos," Aramis breathes, his heart and body turning to water in a flood of relief he is not entirely prepared for. The sensation of stabbing pins scatters under his hair and the sudden way his legs stop threatens to collapse them both to the ground.

Porthos makes a pained noise, swaying. Aramis clutches his freezing torso nearer to his own as a wave of emotion blurs over him. Soldiering his voice, he clears the weakness from his throat and lifts it up. "Athos!" _Athos._

The horse is already veering in their direction, rounding through the trees.

"It'll be short work now. Porthos, are you with me?"

"With… you." Porthos turns his head, mumbling a sound nearly distinct enough to be a name. "'thos"

"Yes. Athos." Aramis closes his eyes as Porthos shudders. His jaw shivers and his voice nearly breaks. "You're going to be all right, now. Fine and fit in no time."

When he looks up, Athos is already upon them—vaulting off his horse and reaching for Porthos's skin. His eyes pinch as the flat of his hand presses over Porthos's jaw, the haste of his breath being whipped away by an equally urgent gale. "He's not shivering?"

"He's fighting yet," Aramis answers, leveling the rough chatter in his own voice with little success.

Athos looks at him as he pulls Porthos's arm across his shoulders. "Your hat?"

"With my horse. Bandits."

"Cloak?"

"Same. D'Artagnan?"

"Stoking the fire. Trying to learn how to breathe again."

_The boy can run, _Aramis praises quietly._ Thank God the boy can run. _

Together, they lurch closer to the blustering horse.

Eyelids fluttering, Porthos lifts his head between them, sags, then jolts stiffly. "Ath-os."

Standing next to the stirrup, Athos pulls Porthos closer, bumping their heads together, once. His wind-burned face is impassive, but his eyes look like vengeance. "Let's get him up."

Aramis nods, forcing liquid knees to cooperate. Porthos gets stiff hands over the saddle and together they wrangled him up, Athos's steady horse snorting through its nose as Porthos bends over its neck.

With one hand holding Porthos's leg, Athos reaches for Aramis's arm.

Aramis stumbles back, catching his balance by the mount's flank. The muscles in his body collectively begin to tremble, forming a resolute shiver he feels in his bones. "No," he says. "You have to go. Now. He's been… confused."

Athos frowns and Porthos's head comes up. "No," Porthos denies. "I'm here… I'm… I'm here." Athos glances up, catching Porthos's hip as he starts to slide.

"Now, Athos. Go."

"Get on the horse, Aramis."

"I'll walk up behind. You have to get him to d'Artagnan—to the cabin."

"No." Porthos whimpers, struggling to shove upright.

Athos hardens his gaze. "The horse will carry you both."

"But not three of us."

"I haven't been in the cold," Athos growls, reaching again for Aramis's arm. "Running will do me no harm."

"I can't hold him on the horse," Aramis hisses bluntly, displaying the uncoordinated shuddering of his hands. "If you put me up there, we won't make it. You—_you_—have to get him to d'Artagnan."

Staring at him, Athos goes completely still.

"Don't," rumbles Porthos. "Don't you—we can't… can't leave him. I won't."

For a moment, the wind slips away. The trees around them stand in silence. Brittle and dead. It is all too easy to imagine this place with corpses on the ground.

"It's not so far a distance," Aramis argues. "Get him there, Athos. Then you or d'Artagnan can come for me."

Porthos makes a snarling sound. "Don't. Don't. Ath-os."

Athos blinks at him, then looks back, face turning to stone. "Get on the horse, Aramis."

Truly frustrated, Aramis shakes his head, jerking back when Athos reaches again for his arm. "Leave, Athos. Leave now."

"No, damn you."

"This is not Savoy!" Aramis shouts, surging forward and surprising all of them. He sucks air through suddenly burning teeth and drops his voice an octave. "This is not Savoy," he repeats, then hammers his gaze into Porthos. "You are not Marsac. And the only dead behind us are the corpses of the enemy. Stop wasting time."

Porthos hums a negating sound. It is again like a mountain turning into dust.

"Your life, Porthos. Your _life_ is at risk. I am not in so much need, and I will not lose you in deference to a ridiculous scar you fear my soul won't carry."

"Ar-mis," Porthos grits, pained.

But that's the last of it. Athos folds. Porthos is bent and visibly troubled, but can get no more words out should he even still be trying to protest.

It is a hasty affair as Athos slings his cloak and scarf around him, shoving gloves onto his hands. "I'll be back for you."

"I know."

"Keep moving towards us."

"I know."

With one hand balanced on Porthos's leg, Athos uses the other to grip the back of Aramis's neck, leaving a promise in form of a rough kiss above his eyebrow. "This is not Savoy," he swears darkly, then swings himself up behind Porthos with a snap, securing Porthos into his hold and maneuvering his steed into as fast a pace as it can manage.

Already walking, Aramis feels the phantom weight where Porthos used to be and watches until he can see them no more, crunching the frost on the ground into powder below his boots, left in the silence of bare trees.

* * *

tbc

* * *

Sorry this one was such a long time coming. I couldn't stop editing this chapter. Which was stupid, since it's pretty much the same as when I first finished it, and it probably still has typos. I was trying to tighten it up because in comparison to the other chapters it felt unruly and kind of off. Which, it is a bit, but I'm also pretty sure I'm just over thinking it now.


	5. Porthos III

There are things Porthos needs to remember, if the world would slow down enough to let him.

* * *

**Porthos**

* * *

Porthos had been small once.

Small, skinny—graceless.

When he remembers it, he remembers that—how it was, how it felt. What it was like to hide in corners, to scuttle himself below the taller and bigger.

Even so, it is a rare thing when those memories find the front of his thoughts.

They're with him now, strangely thick, and he feels the sensation of being shrunken and uncoordinated. Folded in by halves and stuffed into a body he's not grown enough to manage. So slight and skinny, he cannot even reach the skin.

The narrow bones in his feet and fists are lost to his command. And he needs them. Needs them to flex and move.

Because _there is something…_

Something in his head that he is missing.

Something in his eyes and teeth, and ribs.

It isn't too late yet, to get it back. He doesn't think. Not yet.

Except, he remembers. He remembers, already, how he let it slip away.

Charon refused to believe him because he could not tell him what it was, but Porthos remembers it. On dark nights, in the pit of his stomach, he remembers. He left it in his mother's pocket. That's where he lost it. And it must be that which he's missing now, because he thinks about it all the time, and the sinking hollow through his body is the same.

Even though his skin has gone to sleep, and his head is aching loosely, as though it wants to float away.

She'd given it to him. His last keeping, she'd said. Then she'd slept, and he'd put it in her pocket, because he thought it should be close to her—just for a while more—and he'd curled his head down on her hip to close his eyes and feel it pressed between them, like so many times before.

So it's there. It must be there. He knows just where he left it, if not what it was. He can still go back for it.

He hasn't woken up yet and found her body already gone.

But the ground and sky and trees are all running past him. Too fast. Rushing by below the gray breath of darkness. Not pausing for even the softest greeting when all Porthos needs is for them to slow. Slow down. Slow down.

Because it isn't too late.

He hasn't lost it yet.

Not yet.

Except, he knows he did. He let himself fall asleep, and it was gone.

And now…

The trees whisper as they rush. The ground flies beneath the horse's hooves, and won't pause to listen, even when he swears under his breath through lips he can't feel.

And swears…

He'll not be careless this time. Not be the fool—to put it in her pocket like that. He'll not close his eyes.

If he could go back, he would keep it in his hand where she'd put it, and not let it go. He wouldn't fall asleep. Not for a moment.

But he is skinny and small and cannot make his voice be heard when he knows it should roar.

"Porthos! _Porthos!_"

The vibrant voice is pressed to his ear, warm, but with an undercurrent of fear, and Porthos thinks, maybe he's been roaring after all.

Heaving a strange breath, he feels his lungs shake—an odd sensation—and pins the voice to a name. Athos.

It's significant somehow. Needed.

Athos.

Something stirs. _An order of execution. A firing squad._ But that's not...

Porthos shudders and blinks, but his vision sharpens only just. In front of him, there is wind, the kind he thinks he should be able to feel but can't. There are trees. Shaded obscurities and blowing leaves. And... a slaughter. He can't see it, but somewhere there is a slaughter. Sure and sharp, with swords, and blood, and Musketeers.

"Ath-s," he tries to say.

"It isn't far," Athos says, and his voice sounds hollow, like he's shouting through a gale across three leagues. His arms around Porthos create a distant pressure, and when Porthos breathes to reach for the sensation, his ribs ache and tighten, threatening not to let the air in.

"We... we can't," he mumbles, fighting his lungs. "Ath-s, w'can't."

Athos interrupts the low stuttering, if he even heard it in the first place, and says something else—something Porthos cannot make out, and when he wrenches his numb head up to hear it better, he sees a cabin in the distance, standing like a small fortress between the heavy shadows in the cold.

The horse they're on slows to a frantic cantor as they near, blustering into a side step that lets Porthos swing his dull gaze back towards the direction they came. Lets his eyes fix on a dark, cold landscape with nothing living but the wind. Porthos shakes his head and twists—feels the skin on his neck catch against Athos's beard like a distant thing.

_They can still go back. They haven't lost it yet. Not yet. Have they?_

Something like a stone sinks down into his body, widening the nagging hollow of regret into a cavern, just as he hears d'Artagnan's voice—

"Where's Aramis?"

* * *

tbc


	6. Athos

Porthos in trouble, one of their number missing, d'Artagnan catching up, and Athos feeling torn and like time is running out.

* * *

**Athos **

* * *

"Help me," Athos commands, excessively conscious of the way the cold air seeps across his teeth. His throat is dry and rough, and as d'Artagnan stares at him with wide eyes, Athos swallows thickly, refusing to look behind them, and adds more. "D'Artagnan, I need help getting him down. He won't manage on his own."

He tries to say it without fear, but his voice wavers.

Porthos shudders strongly in his grip, a feat muted in comparison with his usual strength, but enough that he nearly slips from the saddle in a way that would do them no good. "No," he slurs. "No… Athos. I won't leave 'im. Not… this. Not… like th-s." His head rocks back onto Athos's shoulder and he breathes, though nothing of it shows in the air as he gasps and mumbles.

His chest heaves.

"I'll not leave him to his own despair."

The last sentence comes out surprisingly distinct.

D'Artagnan's wide gaze tracks from Porthos to Athos, then beyond, into the dense night. He doesn't say Aramis's name again, doesn't ask the question, even if Athos can see it there, hovering on his lips as plainly as if he had. "D'Artagnan!" he rebukes.

Waking to their reality and urgency, d'Artagnan jolts forward, landing a hand on Pothos's leg. "The fire is going," he reports, still sounding winded from his own arduous dash. His breath curls into the air in stuttered puffs, the way Porthos's has ceased to. "And I've dragged the bedding near the grate. How do we…?"

Athos nods, tightening his arms.

Porthos is like a block of ice. The sheer painfulness of the cold penetrating from Porthos's back to Athos's sternum makes him feel breathless, just by holding him. The frozen dampness that could not be curbed by whatever Aramis had been able to do to change Porthos from his lake-sodden clothing has been spreading into Athos by inches, and right now, he's not sure how to let go.

Mid-sentence, d'Artganan seems to realize this too, seizing the reins from Athos's fist and proceeding to lead both horse and riders straight in through the cabin door.

Porthos shudders again as Athos's eyes adjust to the dark and the firelight, but it isn't the shiver Athos has been hoping for, just a rattle of desperation, of rebellion. It echoes through Athos's body as he presses his mouth nearer to Porthos's ear and says authoritatively, "We're here. We're here now. It'll be all right."

More than swordplay, this has become his talent. He's good at summoning control, or at least the illusion of it, even when his blood feels drained, and his heart like it wants to stop. D'Artagnan, at least, latches onto it, even if Porthos doesn't.

"No," Porthos growls, rocking and slipping as they find themselves enclosed. "What'd we… what'd we do? Athos? Athos?"

It takes effort for Athos to loosen his grip from the folds of Porthos's coverings, to let only the present urgency consume them, but he does. Locking his mind to that purpose, he swings to the floor, ignoring d'Artagnan's gaze while together they pull Porthos towards them.

It's an awkward tumble, getting him down. Porthos is frozen and uncooperative, both purposefully and not, both with them and not. And by the time they get him off the horse, Athos realizes they are all three of them shaking.

Worse than that, Porthos has begun fumbling his limbs, like a bear waking from hibernation into chains. His eyes are muddled but fierce as they fasten onto him. "I didn't mean to close my eyes," he says, anguished, and Athos reels, working to keep his visage calm.

_He's been confused,_ Aramis had said. Something they've both seen from men in this condition. Men who wake fighting when they should not be able to move their limbs. Men who throw their blankets aside, insisting they are burning when all the sensation in their skin has been passed over to the cold.

"Did we lose it?" Porthos asks, combative and lurching, nearly knocking d'Artagnan to the floor. "Did we lose where we left it? Did we leave him?"

Athos grapples, feeling like there's a knife in his sternum. It's of little help to realize Aramis had been right to be so worried.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan questions, apprehensive and labored.

The horse blusters and sidesteps as Porthos's focus carries past them to the door. He looks broken and Athos feels his eyes burn, even as he intervenes, using every ounce of strength he has to bear Porthos to the thin unfolded mattress d'Artagnan has flopped out onto the floor.

"Bastards. All of us," Porthos hisses, straining his head up and shoving.

_Never you_, Athos wants to say, bearing him down again with both of them panting. _This one isn't on you._

Porthos shoves up once more, then drops his head back, heaving at the ceiling.

Athos holds him, uttering Porthos's name in repetition under his breath.

To the left of him, the fire crackles.

For the moment, Porthos seems to still.

"Bring the blankets," Athos snaps, looking to find d'Artagnan at his elbow. "Then help me get his boots off."

Kicking a stack of folded coverings into reach of Athos's hip, d'Artagnan is already taking action through the lull, tugging at Porthos's boots while Athos works on the rest of it.

Porthos is mumbling through desperate breaths. "Charon knew you'd come for me," he says. "He knew. And he… He didn't have to stay. Coulda left. Before. Before." His head jolts, turning from side to side. "I didn't… I couldn't… We have to go back. Athos, what'd we do?"

Athos blinks, trying to listen, and trying to not at the same time. Trying to keep his mind and hands hasty for his task. One of the cloaks on Porthos's body is d'Artagnan's. The shirt, Aramis's.

Accomplishing getting the boots tossed towards the wall, d'Artagnan lands a rapid pat to Athos's shoulder and gets to his feet. "I'll take care of the horse and get the door."

"Leave it saddled!" Athos calls.

D'Artagnan freezes, then nods, clomping the horse out and re-entering the room in a flash. Lowering the slat on the door, he kicks a worn horse blanket along the base to curb the draft of still-howling wind.

"D'Artagnan," Athos whispers, having stripped the most frozen clothing back from Porthos's skin, only to find the sensation of the knife in his sternum burrowing deeper. Across Porthos's chest, around his ribs, the underside of both arms—there is violent bruising. Athos can only imagine how bad it'll be once the cold no longer holds it back.

"He was shoved, onto the lake. Then broke his way through the ice, to get back to shore," d'Artagnan explains. "Battering at it, with his arms. His… chest. I… I was trying to reach him. We were… we were trying to reach him…"

Athos stops him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "I know, d'Artagnan. I know. Help me with his pants, then we'll need to get him wrapped, get him shivering. And I'll need you in with him. He—Aramis and I, we've seen men this bad before—he'll need…" Very briefly, he closes his eyes. "He won't come back on his own."

D'Artagnan nods, and for a few more minutes they work in silence, rolling and wrapping, while Porthos's eyes droop and shudder.

D'Artagnan had had the foresight to set warming stones near the coals to heat. As they finish, Athos distributes them carefully, rolling the last two below the mattress beneath Porthos's knees, then rising up to check his face. He curls his palm along the side of Porthos's neck, checking his awareness.

The next breath Porthos takes under Athos's hands feels stilted. His dull eyes blink slowly and he remains limp, even as he speaks. "I'm not Marsac," he says, barely audible, "'m not Marsac."

Athos stares back and feels a silence fall around him. "You're not," he agrees.

"I would not abandon him to the woods."

"Never, and he knows," Athos says, leaning close and tightening his grip. His ears feel hollow.

Already shallow, Porthos's breath hitches. He finds Athos's eyes, though Athos cannot be sure what he is seeing. "Don't leave him... long... Athos. They'll be demons then."

"I won't," he promises.

"Can't let them get there first," Porthos mumbles. "I should... I've got to."

Athos holds him down, with little effort now. "What you must do for Aramis now," he says thickly, "is live."

Porthos stares distantly as his eyes slip closed, open, then closed again. There is a bruise along his jaw that the blankets do not cover, and a scab of frozen blood is stuck in his hairline. Athos ghosts his thumb over it while watching his chest rise and fall.

When he thought of Savoy and Marsac's actions, this was the part that confused him most. He always wondered how Marsac could have looked at the blood on Aramis's face—how he could have wrapped the cloth to bind his head, seen him harmed and incoherent—and still walked away.

Behind him, d'Artagnan makes a small, unobtrusive sound, breaking into his thoughts. "I'll go," he says.

Athos looks at him.

"It isn't hard to figure out. You're here because Porthos needed to get here, and there was no way Aramis could have done it himself. Which means the cold was getting to him too. Wasn't it?" d'Artagnan asks it, but it's not really a question. "He's following, but he's not going to make it here on his own either. One of us has to go back for him. And soon."

D'Artagnan shifts on his knees, looking worn out and a little pale as he continues. "You're worried, and you don't want to leave Porthos. I understand. And you don't have to. I'll take the horse and bring Aramis back. I promise."

Slowly, Athos shakes his head. "You've taxed yourself enough."

"But I…"

"It's me," Athos interrupts him bluntly. "It has to be me, d'Artagnan. For all three of us."

Heavily, d'Artagnan swallows. "I know."

Taking a deep breath, Athos wraps a hand around the back of d'Artagnan's neck, like he often does with Aramis, and calls on all the confidence his voice can summon. "I trust you with this, d'Artagnan. With him." He nods to Porthos, and takes another breath. "Stay close. Try to wake him at intervals, if you can. Or if you can't, and his breathing grows too shallow, push here, on his stomach." Holding d'Artagnan's hand, he moves it to the spot he means, flattening it over the blankets covering Porthos's torso. "Or dig a knuckle into the space behind his earlobes. I will be back with Aramis soon." Still with his palm over d'Artagnan's hand, he clears his throat and says the same words Aramis had said when trying to convince him of the same. "It's not so far a distance."

D'Artagnan nods, his serious gaze diverting from the firelight. Finishing stripping his own boots, he peels back the blankets, rolling in next to Porthos on the outside of the hearth. Athos waits to help him settle then lingers a moment at the edge of the pallet.

He scrubs a hand into Porthos's curls and holds it there, closing his eyes to breathe while swiping his thumb along the cool forehead. "Live for me, too," he orders, hardly audible. "For all of us."

Then tearing himself away, he takes a last backwards glance, and leaves.

* * *

tbc

* * *

Terribly sorry for the wait, I'm just admitting that everything I do these days is going to be unfortunately slow.


End file.
